[Orton’s PoV]

  Orton looked at Aquarius through the observation dome. He felt only a passing interest. The blue planet hung in space like a quiet jewel. White clouds drifted over bright oceans under its two suns. On the land, you could see old marks of human colonies.

  “The troops are still tired from the last push,” Nathaneal said. He led the third detachment of Marines, whose numbers had been cut down by constant skirmishes. He stood stiff beside Orton, his eyes worn from many sleepless cycles. “We need to resupply and get back to the front before the Orks regroup.”

  “We won’t stay long,” Orton said, his voice calm with the confidence of an admiral who had survived many operations. “Once they see our ship, the talks will move fast. It’s a brand-new mecha-carrier, even labeled as a diplomatic envoy; it can be frightening.”

  “Even then, why waste time?” Maxwell cut in. “A thousand Rangers sounds great on paper, but it won’t change the tide of this war, not if we are fully committing to hunting the Orks.”

  Orton had the same questions Maxwell did. However, he kept it inside as he weighed the President’s orders against their shrinking supplies. Why ally with this upstart House now, when every effort should be focused on destroying Ork strongholds? Even so, trusting the President’s complex plans had pulled them through harsh times.

  “The President ordered it, and he always has a backup for his backup,” Orton said. He rose from his command throne. “We’ll handle this with diplomacy. Words backed by what our ship can do.” He stood tall. The white of his admiral’s uniform shone under the soft lights, the shoulders marked with Lot’s insignia.

  The three of them stood at the very top of the Dawn. Below them were maze-like command decks and endless hangar rings that wrapped around the ship’s long spine. This observation dome was a private place for the highest ranks. It was a wide, half-circle room with thick, clear panels that curved up into the ceiling. From there, space stretched in every direction. The stars drifted in silence, and the planet ahead grew larger.

  Orton walked to the edge of the viewport, his boots clicking on the deck. He clasped his hands behind his back, steady and focused.

  The ship hummed with life around them, like a giant creature in space. Cables ran through the walls, carrying steady streams of Energy and data. In the center, a table was illuminated by holograms projected above it.

  "Yes, sir," both commanders affirmed in unison, though the undercurrent of doubt lingered in their tones.

  Orton understood their reservations all too well; he could sense the ambition simmering beneath their polished exteriors. Their hunger for glory and ascent through the Republic's military ranks.

  Nathaneal, ever the pragmatist, yearned for the visceral front-line command, where battles against Orks forged legends from mere soldiers. Maxwell, with his sharper political edge, sought the subtle maneuvers that elevated one to admiralty boards and strategic councils.

  This diplomatic detour was a waste of precious momentum. This could cost them a chance to impress the Republic’s politicians, leaving them behind while rivals collect bounties across the stars.

  Maxwell and Nathaneal raised their hands in flawless salute, clenched fists thudding against the pristine white breastplates of their armors.

  Maxwell’s light-brown hair was trimmed and combed to regulation. His bright blue eyes could read a tactical holo at a glance. He looked like pure discipline, a figure shaped by the Academy’s strict standards. His stance never wavered. Every move showed his trust in the chain of command. He was young, but full of promise. Promise Orton had helped build, turning a raw cadet into a careful, ambitious officer.

  Nathaneal was the opposite, sharp and restless. His jaw was tight, and his eyes showed the frustration of a fighter stuck waiting. His dark hair was messy from a recent sparring match on the lower decks. The muscles under his armor showed a commander who lived for action, not rules. Even so, when he saluted, it was flawless.

  Both came from lesser Houses, old families past their prime. Their ancestors had once been great, but that glory had faded. Orton noticed them at the Academy and pulled them from the crowd. He saw raw talent and loyalty where others saw only weak titles. Even if they didn’t like this mission, they kept their doubts to themselves. They stood firm and disciplined, ready to follow their admiral into whatever came next.

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  As Nathaneal and Maxwell finished their salute, they turned toward the exit together. Their boots hit the deck in the same sharp rhythm.

  Before they reached the doors, a yellow hologram flared to life over the central table. Crimson light filled the room. The message read: “Contact attempt successful. Governor Atlas Blackwell extends clearance for landing and accommodations for our crew.”

  Orton turned back to the console. His face stayed calm and controlled as he replied. “Affirmative. Prepare to enter the atmosphere. Set up a meeting with the Governor right away.”

  --

  The city didn’t have its own name. People just called it Aquarius, like the planet, or the Refuge. Orton understood why as the Dawn’s shuttle burned through the atmosphere and dropped toward the crowded city below. This wasn’t a planned capital with shining towers like the core worlds. It had grown fast and messy, built by waves of refugees running from the Empire, dissidents, outcasts, and survivors from broken colonies, each adding their own piece to the sprawl.

  Homes and housing blocks rose in shaky stacks, made from salvaged steel and old starship hulls. Rusted beams stuck out at odd angles. Flickering holographic signs advertised black-market tech and synthetic food. Narrow alleys twisted between the buildings, buzzing with low?hover vehicles and the distant clang of workshops. High walkways, thrown together from cargo netting and scrap metal, crisscrossed the sky.

  The shuttle set down at a giant hangar on the city’s edge, a cave?like bay cut into the planet’s dark rock. It was one of the few places big enough for a ship under the Dawn’s diplomatic cover, a massive craft hiding bays of mecha titans and armed drones. Dust swirled in the engine wash as the ramps lowered with a hydraulic whine. Squads of soldiers and officers marched out and spread toward the city, looking to restock whatever they needed.

  Meanwhile, Orton led his commanders toward the city center. Their boots crunched over gravel on the outskirts. The air was thick with the bite of exhaust and the sharp smell of welding. From there, Orton picked out the government building standing above the chaos. A three-story building made of white rock and reinforced crystal glass, one of the few official structures above ground.

  'Interesting. If things go sour, we might need some special equipment,' Orton mused inwardly, his mind already plotting. 'Bombers would need anti-bunker missiles to crack that shell. Precision strikes to burrow through the substrata before the shields cycle up.'

  As they neared the entrance, automated sentry drones stood on either side and swept them with red laser grids. On the raised plaza, two people waited. One was Governor Atlas Blackwell.

  He wore a midnight?black suit made of high?tech fabric that fit like a second skin. Thin holographic lapels shimmered with live data from his off?world businesses. He carried himself like a space tycoon, the kind who built empires out of asteroid belts and deep space.

  Beside the Governor stood an android. Its joints whirred softly at the elbows and knees. But its clothes were the strangest thing. It was wearing a plain white T?shirt and bright floral shorts, as if it were dressed for a beach, not a meeting.

  'Does it think it’s a surfer? Maybe its AI glitched during an update?', Orton thought, hiding a slight smirk. He stepped two paces ahead of his commanders. His admiral’s uniform was spotless and firm.

  As he came closer, Orton held out a gloved hand in greeting. His handshake was firm and measured, but with a warrior’s strength behind it.

  Atlas reciprocated, his handshake steady and appraising. "Welcome, Admiral Orton."

  "Much obliged, Mr. Blackwell," Orton replied, infusing his words with just enough respect to grease the wheels without yielding ground.

  “Good. Let me show you the city while we talk about what you need,” Atlas said, pointing toward the main avenue. The wide street was crowded with hover-carts and people in mismatched clothes and suits. The air buzzed with many languages and the sizzle of street-side grills selling strange off?world foods.

  Orton masked his discomfort; he'd anticipated a conference chamber, not this ambulatory tour through the Refuge's streets, exposed to prying eyes.

  "As you, sir, are a businessman, I'll be concise to conserve our time," Orton stated, his voice adopting the polished cadence of a seasoned vendor. A tactic that received an amused smile from the Governor.

  "Excellent. I value brevity above all," Atlas concurred, his stride confident as they delved into the avenue's flow.

  “I have a strong offer for you and your world,” Orton said. “I can sponsor your request to join the Republic. You’d get our protection, fleets on call, secure trade routes, and tough defenses against any imperial retaliation.”

  Atlas burst out laughing, a deep sound that echoed off the nearby buildings. His eyes sparkled with amusement, as if Orton had told a great joke instead of making a serious offer.

  "Well played. You've rehearsed that pitch to perfection," Atlas remarked, still chuckling. "However, you're mistaken, Admiral. I have no need of the Republic. On the other hand, you need me. So drop the pride and enlighten me. Why should I ally with you?"